


Lights Will Guide You Home

by Lise



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel comes back, Forgiveness, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Sam Winchester, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Hell Issues, Season 7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one second chance too many.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Will Guide You Home

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous thank you to vail_kagami for her timely beta which meant that this actually got posted instead of languishing on my hard drive for forever.

Castiel wonders when he’ll stop getting second chances. 

It feels like a moment since he was warring against the insidious poison of the Leviathans within and now, when he is standing, still confused and blinking reflexively in a big empty field, trying to understand, to remember…

How long had it been? Where was he? And the Winchesters…

Castiel’s stomach dropped. They could all be dead. In all likelihood – but no, no, they’d survived so much else, surely this wouldn’t be the thing to take them down, surely _he_ wouldn’t be the one to finish them, surely- 

But he had to know. Even if he shouldn’t get close to them, even if they never wanted to see him again, even if he was so _tired,_ he had to know if they were still alive. The world aside, it was the Winchesters he thought of. Of Dean, stubborn and steadfast. 

Of Sam. _Let us help. Please._ Sam who he’d destroyed so casually, and the fact that he’d been standing when Castiel had last seen him didn’t mean anything, really. 

The one thing he was sure of, of all the times he’d been resurrected, this was the time he didn’t deserve it. After everything he’d done, everything he’d ruined, why wasn’t it enough? He could have torn the world apart. It might be in the process of being torn apart yet. He’d risen too far and fallen, and the last angel to do the same was locked away where he couldn’t be reached.

Why was Castiel special?

“God?” He asked, voice scratchy and unfamiliar, but he didn’t really expect an answer (and wasn’t disappointed). 

He flexed his wings and spread them wide. It ached, but in a good, clean way, like stretching forgotten muscle (a human metaphor). That seemed almost worse, that he should have this gift, that he should be so favored, after everything. 

He searched for Sam and Dean, and willed himself into flight. _Please,_ he thought, a desperate prayer though he was certain his prayers were meaningless, _please let them be all right. If you brought me back…_

Only continued silence. He felt so free, so light and strong and new. It made him sick. 

He had no right. Not to this.

When he landed, it was not at the salvage yard. He was standing in front of a motel, The Six Trees, he read on the sign, and swallowed. It was selfish, he thought suddenly, looking for them. Needing to see them for his own peace of mind. 

He didn’t know which door to knock on. Castiel swayed on his feet and wondered what he thought he was doing (wonders what God thought he was doing, bringing him back; hadn’t he failed enough to prove himself unworthy?).

Then the door in front of him opened, and staring back at him was Sam, eyes wide, almost circular, and Castiel saw his mouth shape the word, “Cas?” but couldn’t hear it through the roaring in his ears. He remembered: _sword sliding in between his vertebrae but he hardly even felt it, “not doing so well, are you, Sam?”_ and _let us help you, please._

“Sam,” he said, faintly, everything he wanted to say on his tongue, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry about your soul and about opening the door to let you start the apocalypse. I’m sorry for helping to turn your brother against you. I’m sorry for breaking you-_

And then Sam was closing on him and Castiel was fully prepared to die this time, almost thought he would welcome it, but Sam wrapped his arms around Castiel and held him against his warm (solid, living) chest and was saying in his ear “thank god, Cas, you’re alive, thank god, it’s you, right? It’s really you?”

Castiel had thought he was miserable when he first found himself alive again, but this, this was so much worse.

* * *

Sam dragged him inside. The hotel room was small and cramped but there were two beds and Sam was talking, clearly if a little too fast. “Dean’s not here right now – hey, sit down, I’ll call him, he’ll be – Cas, Jesus, I’m-”

“Sam,” Castiel said, and his own voice sounded strange to him, and it must to Sam too because he stopped dead in his rapid speech and looked at Castiel. He wasn’t sure where to start. “Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine,” Sam said, quickly and easily, like he’d answered that question before, but he didn’t look at Castiel when he said it, and Castiel noticed that his right hand was wrapped around his left wrist, white-knuckled. And his eyes kept moving quickly from corner to corner to Castiel and back. Castiel knew how _not-fine_ he was, remembers knowing (when he was god) exactly how the edges and fractures and pieces of Sam’s mind were cracked or cracking. 

He curled into himself, as if making his vessel small would make himself small as well, as if maybe he could vanish if he merely made himself small enough. Sam put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas,” he said. “It’s okay. I get it. I _do._ I forgive you.” 

He said it so easily, like it was simple and natural and there wasn’t even a thought, for him, of doing otherwise. 

It felt like a knife in Castiel’s chest. _Don’t,_ he wanted to say, but his throat closed up, and Sam was already dialing, saying, “Dean – no, I’m fine. I’m okay.” His voice trembled minutely, and he glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Castiel, though to Castiel’s eyes it looked shaky and uncertain. “Dean. Castiel’s here.”

By the way Sam blinked and then pulled the phone away, Castiel guessed that Dean hung up in a hurry. Sam turned around, that shaky, uncertain smile back on his face. “He’ll be here soon,” he said. “He – he really missed you, Cas. He really…” Sam trailed off. His eyes flicked over to the corner again, and this time he didn’t look away. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, and Castiel gaped a little. “We didn’t save you. We should have…”

Castiel stared at Sam in frank disbelief. “What?” 

“You asked for help, and…”

Castiel thought he couldn’t possibly feel worse. He didn’t even know what to say, or what to do, or how to fix…

Fix. He is an angel. 

“Sam,” he said abruptly. “Come here.” Because he was watching Sam closely, he saw the younger Winchester flinch back, and the flash of doubt in his eyes – and he could guess easily enough that Sam hadn’t been looking in the corner just to avoid Castiel’s eyes, and perhaps now he wondered... “I want to help. You.” The words tasted strange and awkward in his mouth, because he shouldn’t be doing it like this, shouldn’t be offering; he should be begging, should be prostrate on the floor for the rest of his life – but Sam won’t oblige him. 

(Maybe, Castiel dared to hope, after this was done, Dean would.)

“I’m fine,” Sam said, so quickly it’s obviously automatic, and Castiel closed his eyes and made himself speak. 

“I felt…I felt your soul, Sam. When it was returned. I glimpsed what was behind the wall when I broke it.” Sam flinched, looking anywhere but at Castiel. It hurt, but it was a good kind of pain, the right kind. “I know how bad it was. Is. Please…let me. I owe you.” 

“It’s okay,” Sam said again, in a hushed, rough-edged voice, but he was shifting uneasily, and the line of his shoulders was tight. There was fear in his eyes. 

“Please,” Castiel said again, and finally Sam stepped forward, and Castiel reached up because he didn’t want to stand, not yet, and laid a hand on his forehead. 

He could feel the broken pieces of the Wall, could feel the chaos and fire and pain among the wreckage, and wanted to be sick, and he had done this, he had –

 _Focus,_ he told himself, and tried to gather the pieces, imagining them like glass, and put them back together in some semblance of order. 

Nothing. 

Castiel tried again, but what he could feel didn’t respond to his requests – the edges wouldn’t align, the fractures wouldn’t mend, and he couldn’t…didn’t have the power to fix it, because it was easier to break down than to build. _This is my legacy,_ he thought, and pulled back sharply from both body and mind. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. Then he realized that Sam was shaking even harder than before, his eyes squeezed closed and making small, pained noises, and Dean was standing in the open door with his face absolutely white.

* * *

“You asshole,” Dean said, but he didn’t make a move for his gun. And then he looked at Sam and went immediately tense. “What the fuck did you do?” 

“I was trying to help,” Castiel said, and then wasn’t sure why he was protesting. Dean made a disgusted noise and closed the door, shoving into the room and over to Sam, shoulders blocking him out. 

“I think you’ve done enough _helping_ already,” Dean snapped, and reached out, grabbed Sam’s arms and shook him, lightly. “Sam. Focus. It’s me, okay?”

Castiel drew back. He could leave. Perhaps he should. It would be for the best; his attempt to help had apparently only made things worse. 

He didn’t leave. 

Sam was taking short, aborted little breaths and shaking his head slightly as Dean lowered his voice and started speaking more rapidly. Castiel looked away. All he’d managed was to draw everything to the surface, and _why bring me back if I can’t even set things right?_

“I’m fine,” Castiel heard Sam say, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” like the words were a talisman and if he said them enough it would make it so. Dean turned his head minutely and glared at Castiel, hard enough to make him want to flinch, but _yes,_ he thought with satisfaction, _this is what I deserve, please…_

“Yeah,” Dean said roughly. “You’ll be okay. Come on, Sam. I’m right here. Focus on what’s real.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said meekly, and Sam shook his head with vehemence. 

“It’s not your fault-”

“Fuck that,” Dean said. “Cas, shut up. Sam…”

Sam was straightening slowly and Castiel saw him heave a breath. “I’m okay,” he said, voice only trembling slightly. “Really. It just…took me by surprise.” His eyes slid toward the corner again, and pulled away. Dean noticed. 

“He’s not there, Sam,” he said, and sounded tired. And glared at Castiel again. “You don’t need to listen.”

“I’m not,” Sam said, but it was a feeble lie. “Dean – Cas is here. I was right about that. Wasn’t I?” He sounded uncertain, suddenly, and looked from Castiel to Dean. With his eyes wide and round, he looked young. As though Castiel needed more reasons to hate what he had done. 

“Yeah, you were right about that.” Dean sounded grudging. “And I’m not quite sure that’s a good thing.”

Sam looked up and smiled. It looked thin and tired to Castiel’s eyes. “And you thought I was hallucinating.”

Dean’s eyes cut over to Castiel as he snapped, “Shut up, Sam,” voice not particularly severe but gaze full of venom. Castiel curled his shoulders up and tucked his head down, shame gnawing at his gut. 

Sam’s hand wrapped around Dean’s wrist. “Dean,” he said quietly. “It’s fine. It’s Cas.” He smiled. “He’s our friend. Remember?” 

“Sam,” Dean said tightly, and perfectly audibly, “You know the reason I have to worry about you driving off with someone who isn’t there? _Him._ If it were me, you’d-”

Yes, Castiel thought, relaxing. This was more like it. 

“It wasn’t you,” Sam said matter-of-factly, and Dean narrowed his eyes. “That’s – not the point, Dean. The point is-”

“You got hurt. There are a bunch of new monsters loose in the world. I get it. If Cas hadn’t-”

“Dean,” Sam said, “He’s right there,” and glanced at Castiel almost nervously. Castiel tried to look harmless. Sam’s expression shifted to worried, and his voice dropped to a lower register, barely audible. “What if I, Dean, or you, or Bobby. You forgave me. For everything.”

“Yeah,” Dean said fiercely, “But he isn’t you. Cas, outside. Sam, stay in here.” And the older Winchester stormed for the door. 

Sam looked at him, helplessly. “Cas,” he said, a pleading note in his voice that made Castiel sick with guilt, because he didn’t deserve that, and he almost hoped Dean had an angel’s sword with him to finish this, because the guilt was like a crawling black _thing_ inside him and he wanted it gone. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel forced out, because it seemed important, even if he didn’t have the right. “You’re a better man than anyone ever gave you credit for.”

He went to the door and stepped out, and felt Sam’s eyes on his back the whole way until he closed it behind him.

**

Dean was standing in the parking lot, not looking at him. “Who brought you back? God?” He asked, voice rough-edged but flat.

“As far as I know,” Castiel said, after a moment, standing on the sidewalk and watching Dean’s back, the shift of his shoulders and feet. “I don’t know who else could…” he trailed off. 

“Maybe those sons of bitches from Purgatory? They’re pretty powerful.” The lack of tone in Dean’s voice was worrying. Castiel said nothing, and it was only a moment before Dean spoke again. “You’ve sure got God on your side, Cas. Why did you come here?”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. “I had to know that you were all right.”

Dean snorted. “That’s rich. I’m fine. Sam’s not. You were the one who told me that Sam’s soul was a mess. Did you really think it would just be _fine_ for you to break down everything keeping him standing?” Castiel remained silent. Dean turned around, sharply. “You said you’d fix him,” he said, harshly. “But you can’t, can you?” 

Castiel shook his head. “I tried.”

“And nearly took down all the progress we’ve made, yeah, I noticed.”

“Dean.” Castiel looked over in surprised at Sam standing in the doorway of the motel, leaning a little against the frame. “I’m fine. It’s…”

“Yeah,” Dean bowled over him, “Fine. You’re always ‘fine.’ You’re ‘fine’ when you space out in the middle of conversations, you’re ‘fine’ when you hardly sleep at night, you’re ‘fine’ when Lucifer starts talking smack at you from the backseat of the car-”

“I’m _dealing!_ And this isn’t about me, this is about-” Sam shot a look at Cas. “I forgive him, Dean, and-”

“Stop saying that,” Castiel said, no longer able to keep it to himself. Sam turned his head and blinked. Dean stared at him as well, frowning.

“Cas?” 

“Stop,” Castiel said again, his voice dead in his own ears. “Dean’s right. About everything I did. And it was me. I considered it for a long time and I decided that the only way to keep both of you out of the way was to break the wall. I knew what it meant. I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t kill you, Sam.”

He could almost hear Dean growl. Sam was staring at him with a confused, lost expression on his face, like he didn’t understand what was being said to him. 

“I saw the possibility as a necessary consequence of what had to be done. I rationalized it by telling myself that given who you were it could be forgiven, and once I was all powerful it would be easy to fix it.”

“Cas,” Sam said, sounding slightly strangled. 

“Furthermore,” Castiel went on, because while he was trying to goad them into proper punishment, why not tell everything at once, “Just over two years ago it was I who unlocked the panic room door to allow you to escape while you were half out of your mind.”

“ _What,_ ” Dean snarled, and Castiel didn’t look at him, eyes boring into Sam’s, who was shaking his head. 

“Cas, that wasn’t your fault-”

“Don’t absolve me,” Castiel said, and managed to catch the anguish before it leaked out of his voice, “Don’t forgive me. You don’t have any right to forgive me-”

Dean grabbed his shirt and tugged him roughly around. “Shut up,” he said, belligerent and furious. “Just – _shut up,_ don’t – don’t you-”

“Dean,” Sam said, taking a quick step in their direction. Dean didn’t glance away from Castiel. 

“Go back inside, Sam.”

“I’m not a kid, you can’t just make me leave while the grown-ups are fighting-”

“ _Go back inside, Sam._ ”

Sam huffed, but Dean pulled his gaze away and looked at his brother with something Castiel couldn’t identify, and Sam sighed. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “Yeah, okay,” and left, slamming the door behind him. 

Castiel closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Maybe I should leave,” he said, and really he should have long ago, it had been foolish to come here, to think he would find what he needed here (maybe in the pit of a volcano, but not here). 

“No,” said Dean. 

“What?”

“I said no,” Dean said again. “You don’t get to fly out on us. Not this time. You can damn well stay and _deal_ with the mess you left.” Castiel stared at him in confusion. Dean’s jaw shifted. “You were stupid,” he said flatly, “And Sam’s wrong to forgive you just like – just like that. Because Sam’s a good person despite everything, and he’s loyal, but you know what? I’m not a good person.” 

“Dean,” Castiel started to object, but Dean turned his gaze on him and said, “Shut up, Cas,” and he shut up, because – well. Maybe just because it was Dean. 

“I’m not a good person,” Dean went on, “And I trusted you, you know? And I knew, we _both_ knew, you were walking a dangerous line, and you just kept on going, and you know who’s paying for it now? Not you, not me, _Sam._ So you’re going to stay, and you’re going to help, and whatever Sam says you’re just going to nod and smile because he forgives you. But I don’t. And I won’t.” 

Castiel swallowed reflexively, a human gesture he hadn’t unlearned. 

“Do you understand?” Dean demanded, and Castiel nodded, very slightly, because he didn’t have the right to answer in any other way. 

“Good,” said Dean, savagely. “Then you can start by getting your own room. Cause you’re not staying with us.” 

He turned on his heel and went back inside. Castiel looked after him, and considered leaving again. Flying away and finding a distant corner of the earth; perhaps ripping out his own grace. 

But maybe this was his punishment, his penance. This perfect cruelty. 

He sat down on the sidewalk and did not sleep, staring up at the sky and thinking on his failure.

* * *

Castiel was consigned to the back seat. 

Castiel gathered that Sam had argued with Dean about something, and Dean had won, judging by their respective expressions when they emerged in the morning. Dean’s expression was grim; Sam’s was just annoyed. 

“You can stay with us,” Dean said. “But that means stay. No flying off, or…whatever.” Sam cast him a look that Castiel recognized as sympathetic, and he looked away and simply nodded. 

“I understand.”

“Good,” said Dean, very nearly savagely. “We’re getting out of here. Get in the car.” He stalked in the direction of the Impala, and Sam caught up to him and starting talking too fast and quietly to overhear. Castiel trailed after and reminded himself why he deserved this, every minute of it. Deserved worse, but this was what they would give him. 

They drove in near silence until they stopped for gas and Sam twisted around while Dean was out of the car. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Castiel cringed. “He’ll come around. Dean will.”

 _He shouldn’t,_ Castiel thought. “You should not apologize,” he said. “You have not wronged me.”

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat that Castiel recognized as ‘unhappy,’ but he turned back around and seemed to give up. In retrospect he should have noticed that something was wrong, but Dean was coming back and he thought that was what had silenced Sam. 

Dean turned on the music and turned it up as the pulled back out onto the road, tossing a bag of something in Sam’s lap that Castiel noticed he didn’t touch. He didn’t sing along with the music and didn’t start a conversation, and Sam was quiet as well. 

They’d been in the car for one hour, sixteen minutes, and thirty-two seconds, Castiel’s mind mercilessly calculating every one, when Sam broke the silence with, “Dean.” Castiel broke out of his reverie, hated himself for allowing himself to relax, and belatedly realized that Sam was radiating tension. And…shaking. 

“Not now,” Dean said tightly. Sam twitched but fell silent, and Castiel watched him closely, feeling a sense of uneasiness he couldn’t pin down. 

(He didn’t speak up, though. That wasn’t his place, not now.)

Sam didn’t relax. If anything, his muscles seemed to be winding tighter. “Dean,” Castiel said, after a few more minutes of silence, “I think Sam…” He trailed off vaguely. 

“Castiel,” Dean started to growl, and then looked sideways and cursed, jerking the car to the side of the road in a skid of tires. 

Sam curled into himself, breathing picking up. “Hey,” Dean said, and there was an edge of desperation in his voice that seemed too comfortable there. “Hey hey, Sam, don’t, Sam-”

“What’s going on?” Castiel asked, and Dean snapped “Shut up,” before the words were even fully out of his mouth. Sam flinched, visibly. His eyes were squeezed closed and his hands twitching at his sides. The cars outside the window zoomed past, and Castiel could see some of them craning their necks to see what was going on at the side of the road. 

Human curiosity could be an ugly thing. 

A shudder ran through Sam’s whole body, and then another. His head tucked down to his chest. “Snap out of it,” Dean was growling, “Come on, listen to me, can you hear me? Come on, Sam, come on…”

Castiel looked away and tried not to listen, shame gnawing at his gut along with something else, like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t be seeing. 

It seemed to take a long time for Sam to respond. When he did, the first thing he said in a small, wrecked voice was, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Dean said, and he sounded tired and upset. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“Don’t need to be sorry I’m fucked up?” Sam sounded tired too. No, _exhausted._ Like he’d – been through Hell, Castiel’s mind supplied, and he almost winced. “Or don’t need to be sorry that you have to deal with it?” 

“Neither,” Dean said harshly. “You’re not….you’re okay, Sam. There’s no more wrong with you than’s wrong with me.”

“Ha,” Sam said, without any real amusement, and Dean sighed. 

“You need a rest?” 

“We can keep driving. I’ll sleep in here.” Sam shifted until his head was leaning on Dean’s shoulder. “Come on. We should keep going. I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, dubiously. “Sure.” 

“I can always sleep in the car,” Sam said, the words slurring together slightly. Dean paused for a moment, breathed out sharply, and then pulled back into traffic. Castiel stayed silent. 

“What did you think,” Dean said in a hushed, harsh voice a minute later. “How did it look from back there?” 

“I don’t…”

“Sometimes it’s like he’s here one moment and gone the next,” Dean went on. “One second he’s there, with me, and then Hell drags him back in. Never know when it’s coming, or how long it’ll last. Hours, sometimes. And it wears him out. Wears him down.” 

Castiel remained mute. There was nothing he could say, after all. He had to listen. Had to take this for what it was. Punishment. 

“It’s a good day if it happens once in a day,” Dean said. “It’s a goddamned miracle if it doesn’t happen at all. That’s our lives now, Cas. That’s Sam’s life now.”

Then Dean closed his mouth and pressed the gas a little harder, and didn’t say another word. Sam shifted slightly and murmured something into Dean’s shoulder. It was Enochian, and Castiel understood it. 

_Please._ His mouth moved again. _Mercy._

Castiel had never felt the urge to vomit before.

* * *

Sam was ashamed. Sam felt he was weak. Sam was more worried about his brother – and Castiel – than himself. 

It was easy to read these things from him, as easy as it was to sense how deep the damage went, without even directly touching Sam. He radiated all of it. “How’s Cas?” Sam asked when he woke up from his nap, and Castiel had never felt lower, weaker, more despicable. _Please,_ he wanted to say. _Stop. Just stop._ But Sam would only feel sympathy for him. After all, Sam Winchester understood guilt. 

“I am fine,” he said, before Dean could say it. Sam didn’t seem entirely satisfied, but he didn’t argue either. Too tired, it seemed. 

They weren’t going anywhere in particular. That first day, they drove west. The next, south. The third day, Sam had an episode in the car that lasted for two hours, and when he came back he curled into himself and cried as Dean glared daggers over his head as if Castiel did not know whose fault it was. 

He could have left, whenever he wanted. Easily. He stayed. Stayed and Sam forgave him and Dean condemned him, and knew which he preferred, which was right. 

And on the fifth day, when Sam’s exhausted sleep exploded into screaming nightmares-

He reached out before Dean could, laid his hand flat and said, “Be still.” Sam’s mind quieted, and so did he. 

Dean jerked the car to a stop and was already yelling, “What did you do, what did you-” and Castiel made himself say, “I was only helping him rest,” and Sam took that moment to turn and nuzzle a little against Dean’s shoulder with a small and not discontented sigh. They both looked at him, and Dean looked forward, then, and tightened his hands on the wheel. 

“Thanks,” he said, after a few minutes, and Castiel felt his stomach clench. 

He just nodded.

* * *

Seven miles from where Castiel had quieted Sam’s dreams, Dean said, “I won’t forgive you.” 

“I know,” said Castiel. 

“But I’m glad you’re not dead.”

That Castiel was less sure of. Sam opened one eye and Dean’s attention switched totally to his brother. 

“Mm. See how it is. Have chick flick moments with anyone but me.” 

“Shut up,” Dean said, his ears turning slightly pink. Sam smiled minutely, turning his head so Castiel could see it. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead too,” he said, blurrily, and then closed his eyes again. Castiel wasn’t sure what the twisting, wrenching sensation inside him was, but it hurt less than he thought guilt should. 

They drove on.


End file.
